First
by Thethuthinnang
Summary: Yaoi. Spoiler. Millie asks a question she didn't know she didn't want the answer to. Rating for language and some disturbing concepts.
1. 1

"My _what_?"

                "Your first kiss, Meryl," repeated Millie brightly. "You know, the original, one-and-only, first really romantic kiss you never forget?"

                Meryl sniffed into her tea. "I don't know what this has to do with anything," she said haughtily, but there was a pink tinge to her nose and cheeks.

                "Mine was when I was eighteen," Millie continued, oblivious to Wolfwood's snicker. Vash hadn't looked up from his drink. "There was a boy named Peter in my class, and he was so polite! It was Valentine's Day, and the flower shop was out of roses, so he—"

                "Honestly," interrupted Meryl, pink darkening to red, "can't we be a bit more mature?"

                Wolfwood gestured to the bartender, who obligingly poured out a couple of more heavy beers and slung them down the bar right into Wolfwood's hands. It was late, and only a few regulars still cluttered the bar, listening to the latest satellite news off of an ancient receiver set, but the vodka was still going strong and the old man with the ancient guitar in the corner didn't show any signs of quitting. Wolfwood wished the girls would just go on up to the hotel proper so that Vash and he could get down to some real drinking.

                "Mr. Priest," persisted Millie, apparently wide awake from the three pudding cups she'd breathed in, "when was _yours_?"

                Wolfwood grinned slyly. "That depends on what's being kissed, doesn't it?"

                Millie blushed and sputtered and Meryl rolled her eyes, muttering about foul-mouthed men in general. Vash still didn't look up, but the glass of alcohol paused on its way to his lips.

                "That's not what I meant!" cried Millie. "I mean a _real _first kiss!"

                "Relax," Wolfwood sighed, reaching for another cigarette. "It was a joke."

                Millie was still red, but she nodded and let it go, and Meryl scowled blackly into her tea. The old man in the corner hit a sour note and Vash twitched like a burned cat.

                "Mr. Vash," said Millie, still game, "you had a _special_ kiss, didn't you?"

                _Diversionary tactics, _decided Wolfwood, and nodded to the bartender to bring on the hard stuff. Maybe if they got stinking drunk, the girls would get disgusted and leave and Millie would give up this really strange conversation.

                "Millie!" griped Meryl. "That's not—"

                Vash lifted his eyes then, expression cheerful and normal and…strangely unreadable. His smile was as empty as the sky when he said, "Me?"

                "Of course!" Millie faltered. "I mean…didn't you?"

                Wolfwood caught the vodkas with a swallowed curse.

                Even Meryl shut up to listen. Three pairs of eyes locked onto Vash's face.

                He wasn't looking at them. He stared down at the table, one hand toying with the glass of whiskey in front of him, tipping it to one side, then to the other. His mouth was set in a straight, tight line, and his eyes were…

                "Yes," he said quietly.

                Meryl looked skeptical. Millie, usually such a perceptive girl, only smiled gaily, happy to be getting somewhere. "Was it nice, Mr. Vash?"

                Wolfwood could have kicked her.

                It was like watching a flower bloom. The expression on Vash's face changed so slowly, so obviously, yet so _incredibly_, that no one missed it, even Millie, like watching skin blacken and char. His eyes narrowed, a corner of his mouth dragging downward, and such an intense pain bled into his face that it made Wolfwood clench his teeth to see it, such powerful, inhuman pain that surely no one normal could possibly bear it. Half-gloved fingers stiffed on the round shot glass, to the point where it cracked lengthwise and booze began to pool on the table.

                Without speaking, Vash took his fingers from the glass and looked at them. Blood slicked his skin and dribbled down his palm, spotting the table, whiskey and blood. A peculiar look was on his face, an unfamiliar thing Wolfwood had never seen in Vash the Stampede's eyes, and it took way too long for him to realize that what he was seeing was fear, so much fear in that bar that Wolfwood could taste it like a fine cigar.

                "No," murmured Vash, voice calm and quiet and completely separate from his expression, "it wasn't. It wasn't nice."

                He stood up, tucked his sliced fingers into a pocket, where the blood would not show, and left.


	2. 2

"Rem, Rem…what's that?"

                "That?"

                "What are they doing?"

                She was quiet for a minute. "He's kissing her, Vash."

                Vash blinked at the image file he had pulled up on the consol screen and scrunched up his nose. "'Kissing?'" He pointed. "With his…?"

                Rem was smiling. "Kissing is something that happens when you really love someone," she explained. "It's…it's…"

                "Like hugging, only with your mouth?" suggested Vash helpfully.

                One of the other crew members smothered a laugh with a cough that, for a moment, drowned out the air control vents overhead.

                Rem nodded. "Exactly, only…it's more special."

                "I understand," said Vash, and, throwing his arms around Rem's neck, bussed her enthusiastically on the cheek.

                Rem sat still, blinking, surprised. Her eyes shined suspiciously.

                "I love you lots, Rem," said Vash, grinning, and then, worriedly, "Did I do it right?"

                "Yes, Vash," said Rem, voice wobbly, and kissed _his _cheek in turn. "You do it perfect."

                Vash laughed, delighted with this new thing. Hopping out of the console's chair, instinctively tossing back his mane of long, impossibly golden hair, he hurried out the automatic doors and down the corridor, impatient to find Knives and tell him about this "kissing" business.


	3. 3

He knocked three times before getting impatient and just opening the damn door with his key.

                Vash the Stampede was not in the room.

                Cursing, Wolfwood sat at the foot of his own bed, running a hand through his hair. Another cigarette was pulled out of his pocket, lit, put to his lips. A protracted drag made him feel somewhat better.

                Oh, Christ.

                That expression…that expression…

                Wolfwood knew that the world was full of pain. He knew that everyone had their own sorrows, their own hurts, their own heartaches and failures.

                But _that_ face. That _face_…just the quickest peek, just a _hint _at what the Humanoid Typhoon hid beneath those bizarre sunglasses, that red, red coat, that _ridiculous_ hair…

                And Wolfwood hadn't known that any creature was capable of knowing _quite so much _pain.

                He sucked in some more cancer.


	4. 4

Knives was in the holo.

                He didn't look up from where he was sitting under the tree when Vash stumbled in, breathless and excited. He merely wriggled his fingers hello, and kept concentrating on the portable console in front of him.

                Undeterred, Vash hurried right up, dropping to his knees next to Knives in the grass. "Guess what!"

                Knives was used to hearing this kind of pointless question from his brother and was patient. "What is it, Vash?"

                Vash took Knives's face in both his hands, turned it away from the console and toward his own, and pressed his lips to Knives's cheek, just to the right of his mouth.

                The consol toppled into the grass with a dull, metal noise.

                Vash pulled back with a half-giggle, satisfied with the result. "It means love," he explained, smiling brilliantly.

                Knives blinked, licked at the corner of his mouth closest to where Vash had kissed him. His eyes were the clearest, sharpest blue.

                "I think you're doing it wrong," said Knives.

                Smile abating, Vash cocked his head to one side, confused. "I am? Rem said—"

                "What I mean is," said Knives, in a clinical, impatient voice, as if Vash hadn't said anything, "it's probably the right way to do it with…people like Rem. But _we're_ special."

                "'Special?'" Knives had known what kissing was already! And he hadn't told Vash!

                Knives nodded. "We're _special_," he repeated, stressing it. "With us, you don't kiss _here_," pointing to his cheek where Vash had kissed him. "We kiss _here_," and Knives laid a slender, smooth finger against Vash's lips.

                Vash pursed his mouth against the touch, frowning. "Are you sure?"

                Knives gave him such a look that Vash had to laugh. "Okay, okay!" Without hesitating—because Knives _always_ knew what was what—Vash leaned forward and kissed Knives on the mouth.

                And it was…different.

                Kissing Rem hadn't felt like this—that had been kind of soft and dry, with a kind of squishy warm feeling in his stomach. He remembered smelling flowers on her skin, in her hair.

                But, Knives—Knives kissed differently. His eyes were open, and he looked straight into Vash's as they kissed. Harder, slower, a lot wetter, and the sharp, heavy feeling that Vash got from his brother, a perplexing, hot, _exciting _feeling that was making it hard to hear himself think, that was drowning him out in his own mind, the connection for just a second so, _so _strong that Vash couldn't help but gasp—and then there was Knives's tongue in his mouth, touching his own tongue, and hands were stroking his face, grabbing harshly—possessively?—into his hair, and teeth scraping against his lower lip—the blue that was burning him, so blue, everything is blue—

                Vash fell backwards, lungs struggling for air.

                Knives stared at him. His face was pale, his eyes bright, and he was licking his lips like he'd done before when Rem had made ice cream and they'd both sat there, trying to lick every last taste off their skin—

                "A-are you sure?" asked Vash again in a small, small, small voice.

                Knives nodded.

                "But don't tell anyone," said Knives. One hand came up and pressed tightly against his mouth.

                "Why?"

                "Because," said Knives, now a hint impatiently, "they wouldn't be able to understand."

                This was news to Vash. "Not even Rem?"

                "Especially not," said Knives. He took Vash by the shoulders, pulling him close enough that their noses touched. "This is just for us. It's not for anyone else, just us. Do you hear me, Vash?"

                Of course, Vash nodded.

                The expression on Knives's face was so clear and happy that Vash was instantly convinced. "I promise, Knives," he said. "I won't tell anyone. It's ours."

                Knives smiled.

                But when Vash turned to go, fingers dug into his flesh, held him still. The blue of Knives's eyes were pieces of steel when he met them again.

                "Oh, and Vash," said Knives dispassionately, casually, "I'd be really, _really_ upset if you ever kissed anyone else like this."

                Vash laughed. "But why would I?"

                Knives let him go then with a smile and a whirl of pale hair, and Vash, leaving his brother smiling and standing under a tree and a blue sky next to a cracked console, just couldn't understand why his hands were shaking as he keyed the door open.


	5. 5

"You're drunk," said Wolfwood.

                "Um," said Vash the Stampede, and flopped forward onto the bed. "Yesh, yesh, I quite c-con…conch…con…yesh, I am."

                Wolfwood was disgusted with the situation. There was no good reason for him not to be just as shit-faced as Vash was except that he'd been dumb enough to worry and stay up waiting, half-expecting to have to charge out with his Punisher and haul Vash's ass out of trouble, an activity for which he was better off sober. Vash might stagger around in a tanked stupor and somehow always get out with his skin, but Wolfwood wasn't _that_ out of control just yet.

                _"Keep it…cooomin' love, keep it…cooomin' love, don't stop it now, don't stop it, no…"_

                Vash was singing. Wolfwood winced.

                But he stopped almost as soon as he started, just as Wolfwood was wondering exactly what that strange, very energetic song was, and when he looked again, Vash was curled on his side, his back to Wolfwood, his face to the wall. His knees were half-tucked, his arms folded against his chest, and his hair was a wild, floppy mess.

                Wolfwood had never associated vulnerability with the Humanoid Typhoon, but there it was.

                "I hate kissing," said Vash, suddenly. Wolfwood jumped. Vash's voice was flat, dead, without…without anything.

                "Funny, I wouldn't have thought you'd had enough experience to know that, Needle Noggin'," said Wolfwood, and tried a small laugh. It died right on his lips.

                Vash didn't say anything for a moment, and then, still with his back turned, "Was your first kiss nice, Wolfwood?"

                The words were sad, wistful, kind of ache that dug at Wolfwood's kidneys. "It was all right."

                He could tell by the way the line of Vash's jaw moved that he was smiling. "Good," said Vash, quiet, sounding for all the world as if he were so relieved and grateful that Wolfwood, at least, had had a nice first kiss.

                It made Wolfwood angry.

                Three steps and he was standing next to Vash's bed. His hands found Vash's collar, pulled at it, yanked the man up off the covers. Vash's eyes were translucent blue-green, and Wolfwood could see nothing in them. It made him angrier.

                "Stop feeling so fucking sorry for yourself," growled Wolfwood, and leaned down, his mouth to Vash's—

                And Vash hit him.

                Wolfwood almost missed it. A fist, not the metal one, flew up, gave him a freaking _love tap_ on the chin, and sent him reeling. He snarled around a split lip and looked up to see Vash sitting there, staring at him out of those nothing-eyes.

                "Don't do that, Wolfwood," said Vash, not even a hint of the earlier slur or the more recent languor, and slumped back down.

                Wolfwood couldn't decide if he was furious or humiliated. "Just a thought," he spat through clenched teeth bared in a semi-smile, and turned away.

                His hand was on the knob of the door when Vash said, "Everyone who kisses me dies."

                Wolfwood couldn't help the snort. "Excuse me?"

                "They die," continued Vash. He was pulling off his red coat, scratching at his hair. Once again, his back was to Wolfwood. "Anyone who kisses me…he always kills them."

                Wolfwood's brain was screaming something at him. "I don't understand what you're saying," he said, as nonchalantly as he knew how. "You've got a stalker?"

                Vash flicked his eyes at Wolfwood and for the first time in their acquaintance it was a plain in his face what Vash the Stampede was thinking.

                Wolfwood felt like the biggest asshole in the world.

                "It's just that you shouldn't, that's all," said Vash, with a muted note of finality. In just his leathers, he stretched himself out on his bed and pulled a pillow over his face.

                Reaching up, Wolfwood flicked off the light.

                In the dark, moving carefully, he picked his way to stand beside Vash's bed. Leaning over it, he pulled the shutters on the single window shut, sliding the hook into place. Silver gleamed at the edges.

                He sat down. Vash's hip was pressing against his. Taking a deep breath, Wolfwood grabbed the pillow and yanked it out of Vash's hands.

                In the dark, Vash's eyes were silver.

                "Everyone should have a nice one," said Wolfwood, "even if it is second or third."

                In the dark, his mouth found Vash's.

                Vash jerked as if shot and Wolfwood pretended not to notice.

                He tasted blood and whiskey.

                He tasted tears.

                He tasted…

                Vash moved, and the kiss broke into a jumble of saliva and tongues and teeth. Wolfwood caught Vash's wrists, struggled up on top of the bed and the man, fighting with the long-limbed, half-struggling body to find a comfortable position as he licked and bit and mouthed along sweet skin back toward that mouth.

                "Please, please, Knives, don't," whispered Vash, and Wolfwood pretended not to hear.

END

Author's Note

What can I say? I'm apparently a pervert. I watched the series, became completely fixated on the relationship between Knives and Vash, and then wrote this. Does it count as chan if both participants are (thought of as) children? I think I need to shower.


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